“Beware of the fury of the patient man.”

Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.

He who would search for pearls must dive below.

But love’s a malady without a cure.

We must beat the iron while it is hot, but we may polish it at leisure.

I am resolved to grow fat and look young till forty, and then slip out of the world with the first wrinkle and the reputation of five-and-twenty.

There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know.

None are so busy as the fool and the knave.

Pains of love be sweeter far than all other pleasures are.

He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.

Sure there’s contagion in the tears of friends.

All authors to their own defects are blind.

A farce is that in poetry which grotesque (caricature) is in painting. The persons and actions of a farce are all unnatural, and the manners false, that is, inconsistent with the characters of mankind; and grotesque painting is the just resemblance of this.

Imagining is in itself the very height and life of poetry, which, by a kind of enthusiasm or extraordinary emotion of the soul, makes it seem to us that we behold those things which the poet paints.

All delays are dangerous in war.

Honor is but an empty bubble.

And write whatever Time shall bring to pass With pens of adamant on plates of brass.

Beware not the enemy from ‘without’ but the enemy from ‘within’.

Beware of creating tedium!

Beware of the person who can’t be bothered by details.

Beware of endeavoring to become a great man in a hurry. One such attempt in ten thousand may succeed. These are fearful odds.

Beware the god who cannot laugh.

Beware the things of this world that can mean everything or nothing.

Beware lest in your anxiety to avoid war you obtain a master

Beware of prejudice; light is good in whatsoever lamp it is burning; a rose is beautiful in whatever garden it may bloom.